


Master of Love, Slave of Duty

by Arctic_comet



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arctic_comet/pseuds/Arctic_comet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Constagnan one-shots. Some will be longer, some shorter. At this stage I have no idea how many pieces this will contain, but it will be many. Hoping to post at least once a week!<br/>1. Constance waits for d'Artagnan to come home, takes place before 1x07<br/>2. Anne gives Constance a day off every week and one day she decides to surprise d'Artagnan. Set between 2x05 and 2x06, because I'd like to think that what happened with Marmion was just the last push she needed.<br/>3. Constance can play d'Artagnan's game, and he loves her for it. Takes place between 1x07 and 1x08.<br/>4. During the war battles are fought on the front, at home and in marriages. Takes place a bit less than a year after 2x10.<br/>5. Hélène is the most important person in their lives. Takes place a few months after the events of chapter 4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1. Waiting

It is late and she should have been asleep hours ago, but she only tossed and turned in her bed. This is not the first time d’Artagnan comes home in the middle of the night, but he has never been out this late and she’s afraid something has happened. The others may not even feel the need to inform her, he is after all only her tenant. She sips her tea and waits in the dark, only the moonlight and a single candle on the table providing light for her lonely vigil. Sheshouldn't care as much as she does, but the thought of something happening to him causes a lump to form in her throat. It's silly of her to worry about him in the first place, he was born to be a Musketeer and is more than able to handle himself in a fight, but she finds herself incapable of much rational thought when it comes to him.

At last she hears a noise and a tall, dark figure appears in the doorway. Seeing the light, he enters the kitchen, removing his cape and weapons. She sees he’s holding his left side and wonders what has happened.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be awake at this hour,” he says wearily, running a hand through his hair.

“I have been having some trouble sleeping lately,” she replies.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Are you hurt?” she asks, pointing at his side.

He shakes his head.

“It’s nothing. Took a little fall, that’s all.”

“Down what?”

“A flight of stairs.”

“Did you take a fall or were you pushed?” she asks.

“Both, I guess.”

Now she shakes her head and takes his arm.

“Sit down and undress, I’ll have a look at it.”

He does as he’s told as she digs out the jar containing the lotion she uses for bruises and lights another candle to see better. As she leans down to inspect his side, she can make out a large purple bruise covering nearly half of the skin there. 

"Don't look so worried. Aramis says nothing's broken," he says.

“You were lucky this time,” she murmurs, spreading lotion on the bruise. There is nothing that will make it heal faster, but at least this may ease the pain.

It’s dark but she knows he’s flashing her that utterly stupid grin of his. Her hand lingers on his warm skin longer than she knows is appropriate, but she cannot bring herself to think about it too much, or to feel guilty about it. She notices a change in his breathing when her fingers graze the part of his side that is not sore and grows a little bolder. Finally she lets her gaze connect with his and shudders at the intensity of what she finds there, even in the faint light. However, it is not what she finds in his eyes that she fears, but what he may see in hers. She clears her throat and the spell is broken.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

His stomach grumbles.

“Well, yes, but I wouldn’t expect you to-“

“Don't be silly. Stay where you are and I’ll make you something. It’s no trouble really.”

“You are too good to me, Constance.”

“Remember that the next time you involve me in one of your outrageous plans,” she answers, smiling to herself as she cuts him several slices of bread.


	2. Sweet Tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne gives Constance a day off every week and one day she decides to surprise d'Artagnan. Set between 2x05 and 2x06, because I'd like to think that what happened with Marmion was just the last push she needed.

Every week she is granted at least one day of leave. The Queen says her presence is never unwanted, but that everyone, including her, deserves to have some time to herself. She also insists on paying her for her service, even when Constance tells her that there is no need, as the Queen already grants her food and lodging, but Anne does not give in. In addition, she sees to that the money never goes to her husband, but only to Constance herself. It is unconventional and makes Constance respect her even more. She never spends all of the money she gets, saving nearly half of it without much thinking. 

Somehow the added independence and freedom her position at the court has granted her do not feel as good as they should. Although many months have passed, d'Artagnan is still in her mind, the memories of their time together crystal clear in her head. She still misses him as if it has only been mere days. Perhaps that will never change. 

Although she knows she should go home and see her husband, she does not, but instead wanders deliberately through the parts of town that he does not frequent. Usually she visits a bakery and buys fresh bread, sometimes even a pastry. The delicacies sold in the bakery had not been in her reach when she still lived with Bonacieux, as she never had any money for herself and her husband never had much of a sweet tooth. She had only baked for guests until d'Artagnan had moved in and she had found out that he liked sweets. It was never anything extravagant, but he would always eat whatever it was that she baked and praise her skills. Now she no longer has anyone to bake for, but she can buy an apple, peach or strawberry tartelette with her own money and savour it outside… Alone. As she enjoys the sweetness and creamy texture of her treat, she thinks d'Artagnan would love it.

One day she decides that it is perfectly acceptable for her to buy a pastry to share with d'Artagnan, since they have established that they are friends again. When she reaches her destination, it is Aramis who informs her that d’Artagnan is cleaning the stables. 

He is standing with his back turned to her as she walks in. It is hot and humid and the smell of manure makes her wrinkle her nose.

“No Aramis, I won’t forget the damp corner,” he sighs with an irritated tone, his back still turned to her.

She lets out a laugh.

“Aramis left to find Porthos,” she replies.

He turns and although at first he looks at her as if she is a ghost, eventually he smiles and she feels her heart skip a beat.

“Constance. What brings you here?” he asks, wiping sweat from his face. She swallows hard, suddenly seeing him making that very same gesture after making love to her on a hot afternoon. Would it be better not to remember?

“I- I was nearby and thought you might like a pastry,” she answers, hating how her shaky voice betrays her.

He raises his eyebrows.

“You bought me one?”

She nods.

“Yes. Well, I thought we could share, if you’d like.”

“Of course. Just let me wash up,” he says. 

When he finally emerges from the bath, they find a vacant table and he sets down forks and plates for them.

"This is delicious!" He exclaims after taking the first bite.

"I mean, of course it's not as good as what you bake, but still good," he continues. His glowing words resurrect another happy memory, of them sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a dessert, much like they are doing now.

"So, the Queen gave you leave?"

"Yes, I get a day off every so often."

"What do you do when you're off duty?"

She shrugs.

"I walk around, I visit bakeries... Nothing special or remarkable, but now I have some money of my own... Thanks to you."

He shakes his head.

"The Queen likes you, and that is all your doing, not mine."

"Perhaps, but still... I wouldn't have had this chance if it wasn't for you. I have more freedom now."

"That's good to hear, I'm happy for you," he replies, but does not look her in the eye. She knows that she has hurt him, but seeing the depth of it still makes her heart break.  


She would be a fool to believe that things will ever be the same between them again. The friendship they shared is gone, they can never be lovers again and now all that is left is this... Awkwardness and hunger. How could there possibly be anything else left now that they both must live with the intimate knowledge of how utterly wonderful they are together?  


Many things have been said and promises made, especially on his part. At the same time much has been left unsaid, so many things that can never be voiced now. Many things that he deserved to hear, but those things will do neither one of them any good now.

"I haven't seen you at the palace lately," she says, breaking the heavy silence. 

"We were in Pinon, helping Athos sort some things out."

"And managed to get into trouble, I'm certain."

His eyes light up and he flashes her a mischievous grin.

"Wouldn't be us if we hadn't."

She returns his smile and for a few seconds it is almost as if everything is right in the world. 

"We had to train the villagers to fight. It would have been an asset to have you with us," he says with a small laugh, shaking his head at the memory. A stray strand of hair falls onto his face, covering his left eye and before she manages to stop herself, she reaches out and brushes it back. 

"I'm so sorry," she spits out, pulling her hand away quickly. She is an idiot. This is not fair, not to him or to herself.  


When she looks at him, there is no trace of emotion left on his face. The cold expression looks strange on him and does not suit him in the least. 

"I must go," she says.

Just as she is about to walk through the gates, he calls after her. It is not a demand, but more like a plea. She stops and turns around slowly. He has jogged after her and is right behind her.

"I'm sorry... For calling you a coward, I didn't mean it. I should have apologised earlier," he says quietly. She had not expected to hear this apology now, but when has he ever operated with logic? She wants to tell him she forgives him, but instead she only nods. His words had hurt her, but a part of her agrees with him nevertheless.  
**  
Constance returns to her quarters at the palace, only to find Milady de Winter sorting through the contents of her desk drawers. The first emotion she experiences is no longer fear, but pure hatred.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, feeling white-hot anger building up in her chest.

Milady holds up the leather pouch she keeps her savings in.

“Give it to me!” Constance hisses, the fury bringing a blush to her cheeks.

“What is all this money for, Constance? Surely you should be sharing it with your husband.”

“That is none of your business. Give it back!”

“As you wish,” sighs Milady, dropping the pouch onto her hand.

“Now get out before I call for the guards!”

Milady chuckles.

“I am the King’s mistress, you cannot touch me,” she taunts with a smile on her face, further fueling Constance's rage.

“Leave. Now.”

“Calm down, I just want to know what the money is for. Tell me, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“I already told you that it was none of your business.”

“I think I know exactly what the money is truly for, but do _you_?” 

Milady is gone before Constance can form an answer. She should not listen to a word that comes out of that woman’s mouth, but as she gets ready for bed that night, she cannot stop replaying her last words in her head over and over again.


	3. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constance can play d'Artagnan's game, and he loves her for it. Takes place between 1x07 and 1x08.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, had some real life duties to attend to :P

The bottle of wine they brought now lies discarded on the grass and Constance is sprawled on top of him, one of her hands caressing his chest underneath his tunic. He sees a small fish jump in the stream and suddenly remembers a skill learned a long time ago.

”Have I ever told you that I know how to catch a fish with my bare hands?” he asks.

She chuckles.

“I don’t believe you.”

“It is true. I can prove it, right now.”

“Go ahead, then.”

He strips down to his underpants before wading into the stream, aware of her eyes on him.

It turns out that the fish are more slippery than he remembered, and one after another they escape his grasp and he groans in frustration while Constance laughs at him from the shore. It feels good to hear her laugh, for he believes she has not laughed enough in her life so far. He never intended any of this to happen, but he has no regrets. She is the one thing that has made the house they live in feel like home to him and he no longer sees a future for himself that she is not a part of.

“Looks like you have failed,” she teases, coming to stand closer to the water. Perfect.

"Why don't you give it a try, too," he suggests. 

The smile playing on her lips tells him she knows exactly what he is planning, but is not willing to refuse the challenge.

"I know what your plan is and the answer is no," she replies, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Are you sure?" He asks right before making a leap to grab her by the waist and pull her into the water with him.

She shrieks at the cold water, but wraps her arms around his neck and throws her head back in laughter.

"You are such an idiot," she tells him, still laughing.

"I think you should get out of this wet dress."

She pretends to consider his suggestion, but then shakes her head.

"Hmmmm... I'm sure you would like that, but no."

“I think I might be able to convince you otherwise,” he says, leaning forward to kiss her. 

He lets out a little sigh of pleasure as she caresses the nape of his neck, her fingers threading through his hair. It is a wonder how much love heightens all other feelings; desire, anger, longing, all of it. Every touch matters a hundred times more than before, it's as if he'd never touched anyone else before or been touched by anyone. She moans and he thinks she has given in, when abruptly she pushes him away and runs for the shore. The surprising push causes him to lose his balance and fall backwards. 

Sputtering, he surfaces from the water and sees her dashing up a hill. Oh yes, he enjoys a bit of a chase, especially when they both know the end result. So he follows her up the hill, where she has stopped under a large oak tree to catch her breath. As he approaches her, she makes little effort to get away and does not put up a fight when he pins her against the trunk of the tree and slips his tongue into her mouth. 

"You are such easy prey, Constance," he says, nuzzling her nose.

“Perhaps I’m simply keeping my cards hidden better than you,” she answers, biting her lip. 

He is determined to make her beg, so he only allows himself the lightest of touches. His hands caress her thighs, then her hips, and finally the outsides of her breasts. God, how he longs touch her soft skin again. Fortunately they are nearing the end of this, it will not be long until he gets what he wants.

Her breathing quickens and he knows victory is nearly his... Until her hand ventures down his chest and cups him through his underpants. He groans, burying his head against her neck. In an attempt to regain control he grabs her wrists and holds them above their heads. He had not expected this, although he should have anticipated it, but she is playing his game now and he loves her even more for it. The tentativeness of their first times together has been replaced with confidence and familiarity. He knows what she likes and she knows just how to drive to the edge of madness.

"You aren't playing fair."

"Neither are you." No, he is not.

He leans down to drop kisses on the exposed skin of her breasts and feels her hips move against him. As patience has never been one of his strongest qualities, he unties her corset and with a little help from her manages to remove the inconvenient piece of clothing altogether. As soon as she is relieved of the corset, her hands travel down his chest, her nails raking over his skin lightly in the process, eliciting a hiss from him. 

"I believe this game ends here," she whispers right before pulling his pants down. 


	4. Angels and Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the war battles are fought on the front, at home and in marriages. Takes place a bit less than a year after 2x10.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be a new chapter next week as I'll be out of the country. Will be back the week after that!

By the time they get to Paris, the weather has turned terrible. The rain pours down hard and the flashes of lightning are enough to light up the entire city at times. D’Artagnan rides straight home as usual. God, all he wants to do is forget everything that’s happened in the last six weeks, but somehow he doubts he can. Not this time.

Fleur Baudin is sitting by the fire with Constance as he enters their shabby home, throwing his soaked cloak onto the table before pulling his wife into his arms. Seeing the healthy glow on her cheeks as well as the new, slight swell of her stomach under her dress makes his heart lighter for a moment. Slowly but surely their baby is becoming a real person.

“I had no idea you were coming home tonight,” she says, kissing him.

“Me neither. This is new,” he murmurs, gently caressing her belly.

She beams at him happily.

“Yes, it is,” she replies, embracing him once more.

“You’re feeling all right?”

“Yes. Just a little more tired than usual. Come and sit down, I’ll get you a towel and something to eat.”

He chats with Fleur while Constance moves around the room, and soon he’s got a steaming bowl of onion soup in his hands. Constance pulls her chair next to his and leans into his shoulder, chatting with Fleur while he eats. The soup is his first proper meal in days and he finishes it too fast. When his hunger is satisfied, he notes the bucket in the far corner of the room; the roof is leaking yet again. Not for the first time he feels inadequate as a provider. Who in their right mind would want their wife and child living this way? He reminds himself that it’s only thanks to the kindness of Treville’s cousin that they even have this place. The rent is affordable, which he should have known would mean the house was in terrible condition. 

“I should go, I’m sure the two of you would like to be alone,” says Fleur all of a sudden, rising from the chair and interrupting his musings.

“At least wait until the storm passes,” Constance argues.

“There’s really no rush. I’ll walk you home when the weather’s better,” he says.

The girl shrugs.

“All right.”

**

The weather soon improves and as they’re just about to leave, there’s a knock at the door. D'Artagnan opens it to find Fleur’s father on the other side.

“I knew I’d find you here. Come on, Fleur, we’re leaving," says the older man, not even bothering to greet d'Artagnan.

“I was just about to come home!” Answers Fleur, her voice tense.

“You shouldn’t be here in the first place! This whore is a terrible influence on you!”

“Father, don’t-“ Fleur begins to protest, but d’Artagnan is faster and grabs Baudin and pushes him against the wall before Constance has enough time to react. 

The insult feels like a slap to the face. She shouldn’t be surprised though; she knows perfectly well that Baudin has heard the rumors of her infidelity and now she has married the same man she had that affair with. Still, the man used to respect and listen to her and now won’t even look at her in the eye. No matter how hard she tries to keep the tears at bay, she fails. It hurts. It’s not the first time that word has been uttered in reference to her; she has heard the whispers in the streets, but it is the first time it has been voiced with her in the same room, much less in her home.

“What did you call my wife?” D’Artagnan hisses.

The terrified man can’t get a single word out. His face is turning red and Constance knows she has to interfere before things go from bad to worse.

“D’Artagnan, let him go!” She insists, placing a hand on his arm, but he is too far gone to listen to her pleas. His temper has got the best of him again, but this time she doesn't really blame him.

“Apologise. Now.”

“I’m-I’m s-s-sorry," croaks Baudin.

D’Artagnan lets him go and the man nearly falls to his knees, wheezing.

“Now get out of my house!” Yells d’Artagnan, shutting the door with a loud bang.

“You shouldn’t have done that. You could have killed him,” she says quietly.

“Well, I didn’t. And what was I supposed to do? Tolerate someone calling my wife names?”

“You don’t have a choice. There will always be people like that, d’Artagnan. What are you going to do, threaten them all into keeping quiet?”

“If I have to.”

She scoffs.

“You still don’t understand anything! This is my cross to bear, not yours. You aren’t even here most of the time! You must let me handle this on my own.”

“But you don’t deserve any of that and they have no right! And you just expect me to step aside and let them ridicule you?”

“We don’t always get what we deserve, do we?”

Without answering, he strides into the bedroom. She follows him and finds him changing into clean clothes.

“Where are you going?” she asks when he straps his weapons back on. Suddenly she finds it hard to speak as there seems to be a lump in her throat.

“I didn’t come home to upset you, but that’s all I’ve done. I’m sorry. I’m going to the garrison to sleep, we can talk tomorrow… If you’d like,” he sighs. 

“Sleep well, Constance," he finishes, casting one last look at her before shutting the door after him. 

**

__

“We don’t always get what we deserve, do we?”

She had a point there. If he had got what he deserved, he’d be dead by now, and if she’d got what she deserved, she’d have a better husband than him. He's glad he decided not to subject her to his foul mood tonight.

Her tears are all his doing, no matter how he wants to blame others for them. It was his naivety and silly ideals that got them into this situation. Now she’s an outcast and has to spend much more time alone that he’d like her to. When he turned to look after her for the last time before going, she was still crying. At that moment he truly hated himself. Now, standing outside the door, he decides to find a tavern before heading to the garrison to sleep. There’s bound to be room there after all, in the quarters of the dead.

Unsurprisingly, his mood is no better after a few glasses of wine. Just as he’s contemplating about challenging one of the Red Guards in the next table to a duel, Athos drops onto the bench beside him.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“What does it look like?”

“I thought you’d be at home.”

“Change of plans.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“About as much as you do when you’re drinking. I suggest you either join me or leave me alone.”

“I’m not going to join you and I think you’ve had enough as well,” Athos replies, taking the goblet from his hands. This only fuels his anger. Who does Athos think he is? He’s not a child.

“Give me that!”

“No. I will walk you home.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Unless Constance threw you out, you are.”

“I need to be alone tonight.”

Athos sighs.

“How many men to do you think my mistakes have killed since the war began?”

D’Artagnan finally turns to look at his best friend.

“By my count we are talking about forty-five men. I know all their names, where they were from and who was left to mourn them. All leaders make mistakes and regretting them is human, but we can also learn from them. Next time your actions will save lives.”

“I’m not a leader.”

“Yes, you are, or will be. You are also a very lucky man and letting the war destroy your family would be very stupid indeed.”

"And what exactly have I given my wife? A home in an area barely better than the slums and a husband who's never home. Not to mention that I've made her into an outcast. Think I've done enough for her, Athos? I should’ve never asked her to move out of the palace."

"I think you need to talk to her about this, not me. Come on now, let’s go."

**  


She wants to go after him as soon as she hears the door close behind him, but perhaps it’s better that she wait until morning to speak to him. It wasn’t just Baudin’s behavior that was bothering him, there must have been more than that. What did he not tell her?

Later on, when she's about to turn in, there's suddenly a loud crash right outside their door and she grasps her knife from the nightstand. Quietly, she goes to the door and opens it only to find a miserable-looking d’Artagnan and Athos standing on the other side. Sighing in relief, she lets them inside.

“Sorry to bother you this late, Constance, but I thought he should come home for the night,” says Athos.

D’Artagnan says nothing, but manages to get inside without help and takes a seat at the table.

“Thank you,” she tells Athos.

He gives her a small smile and a nod before disappearing into the night. She locks the door behind him and then turns to her husband, still staring at his feet.

“I’m sorry I left,” he sighs.

 

“It’s all right, I should apologise as well. Some of the things I said weren’t fair, and I didn’t mean them.”

“I deserved it.”

“No, you didn’t. Will you please tell me what’s wrong?”

He sighs again, but lifts his head and pulls her to sit in his lap.

“You shouldn’t carry my burdens,” he says.

“Don’t be silly. I’m your wife, we’re in this together. Tell me,” she prompts.

“I made a mistake and people died because of that.”

“D'Artagnan...”

“We slept in the same tent, they trusted me and now they’re dead because of that. That’s hardly a mistake everyone makes.”

She feels tears burning in her eyes. God, she wishes she could say something— anything— to comfort him, but there are no appropriate words or if there are, she can’t think of them. So instead of comforting him with words, she wraps her arms around him and presses her forehead against his.

"I have no words that would ease your pain, but I know that you are the best man I know and you should never forget that,” she finally says.

“You give me too much credit.”

“I don’t think so. Let’s go to bed, I’m getting tired.”

He allows her to take his hand and lead him into their bedroom.

**

“I wish I could give you more than this rat-infested hellhole. You should stay in the palace," he whispers as they lie in bed together.

“There are no rats here anymore, and you know I want to live with you.”

“Still, you deserve better, this baby deserves better, and I can’t give you that now…”

"Stop it,” she says, covering his mouth with her hand.

“I wouldn't change a thing even if I could! I chose this life and I'm going to damned well live it. Just because it's not all perfect doesn't mean I don't want it! You need to stop underestimating me."

“It’s my fault people are shunning you.”

“Bonacieux was Baudin’s cousin! Yes, there will always be people who don’t accept us, but at the same time there’s the Queen, Fleur, the nice old couple next door with the cheese shop and many others who speak to me. I wish you were here more so you could see it, but I’m not alone.”

“What Baudin said upset you.”

“Of course it did, but I’ll survive. We worked so hard for this, I don’t want it to be ruined by guilt. I know I almost let my own guilt ruin it, but I didn’t, and I won’t let yours do it either.”

“You are extraordinary,” he replies, and she feels him smile against her neck. She can’t help but smile as well, he makes her feel as if she can do anything.

He pulls away from her, moving down so that his head’s on the same level with her belly and lifts the tunic she's wearing, exposing the bump. Observing it in wonder, his left hand lands on it.

“This is amazing,” he says at last, looking up at her.

“It’s our child,” she replies, reaching out to stroke his neck.

“Have you felt him move yet?”

“Him? It could be a girl too, you know. And yes, I have, but I don’t think you can feel it from the outside just yet.”

He beams at her.

“I wouldn’t mind a daughter.”

"I know. You'll make a good father."

“I’ll try. I’ll always do my best for both of you.”

“Of course I know that,” she replies, taking his hand into hers.

They don't make love until the next morning; simply being able to lie together after weeks of separation is enough for the night. She holds onto his hand as he snores lightly and wishes nothing more than to be able to have him with her every night. She still isn't sure if he truly understands that to her it's the separation that's the hardest part of being a soldier's wife, instead of their modest home or the cruel words of some people. It's true that her life is less predictable and more dangerous now, but at least it is hers. He fought so hard for them to be together, but now she knows she has to be the one to fight for their marriage to succeed in the midst of the war, and she fully intends to do that.


	5. Hélène

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hélène is the most important person in their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, I was hit by a major case of writer's block!
> 
> Takes place some months after the events of chapter 4 :)

She sends for him immediately when the labour begins, as they'd agreed. Still, he may not make it on time, if at all. There has been no reply to her last letter and she always worries when it's delayed. What if he's missing or dead? What if he never sees their child and they never know their father? Wanting a child in the middle of a war was a risk, but she was willing to take it and would do it again. Now there will always be something to connect them, no matter what happens.

The midwife, Laure, arrives with two younger girls who she doesn't recognise, and informs her that there's still a long way to go. The pain isn't too bad for now, it comes and goes throughout the night. Moving around the room helps a little, but she can't stop thinking about how much she wants her husband there with her. 

The sun rises, and finally through the pain she hears the sound of steps outside the room. She thinks it has to be d'Artagnan, but doesn't know for sure until he enters the room and comes straight to her, taking her hand in his and pressing a kiss on it. 

“You should wait outside, Monsieur,” says the midwife, but he doesn’t move. 

Of course the midwife tries to tell him to leave, just as she had guessed, but he won't. She knows he won't and she doesn't want him to. They're going to do this together, like they talked about. She trusts the midwife’s skills, but she’s old-fashioned when it comes to this. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he mumbles an answer to Laure, barely looking at her. His eyes are all on her, and Constance looks back, trying to focus on him instead of the searing pain.

“You’re here,” she says.

“I am, and I’m not leaving you.”

She offers him a weak smile, the best she can do at the moment, and her hold on his hand tightens.

**

The next few hours are full of waiting. Constance’s pain comes in waves, but she keeps on moving around the room. He tries to rub her back and hold her, but she won't stay still. When she stops moving and instead sits on the floor, trying to catch her breath and grimacing, he can tell the pain is getting worse. He can’t voice his thoughts out of fear of frightening her, but he wonders if all this is normal, as he helps her onto the bed. As soon as the midwife checks on her, reassuring her that everything is well and that she can start pushing soon, he breathes more freely than before.

“You should leave now, Monsieur,” says the midwife again, this time placing a hand on his shoulder to guide him toward the door. Doing his very best to stay calm, he removes her hand from him.

“In case I wasn’t clear the first time: these are my wife and child, and I am not going to wait outside.”

“He stays,” growls Constance beside him, and the midwife purses her lips, muttering something sounding like “suit yourself”, but steps back.

Of course he has heard of labour being a "women's thing", but how is he supposed to wait outside when she's in pain and needs him? No, he's staying right where he is, no matter what that midwife thinks of him. 

He has seen labour before, on his family's farm in Gascony, but this time it's no sheep, horse or cow, but his own wife, and he's more scared than ever before. This is more frightening than anything he's had to face at war. Women die of this; something goes wrong and they bleed to death or succumb to infection days later.  
Until now he believed that he had known fear, even become friends with it. Now he is proven wrong. Fear is the feeling of utter helplessness you feel when the person you love the most in danger and in pain and there is nothing you can do to influence the outcome.

He rarely prays, but decides to make an exception now. His family deserves that. God, please let them live.

**  


The midwife and her assistants try to usher him out of the room for a third time, but he refuses again, and after a pained plea from his wife they allow him to stay. One of the assistants goes behind her to support her back, but he is quick to insist that it is his place. The girl moves away, letting him get his way, and she feels his arms enveloping her from behind. Nothing has ever hurt this much, but she knows she can do this. She grabs onto one of his hands and notices it’s shaking. She’s never seen him afraid before, and even now he is covering it well, but she can tell he’s terrified.

"I'm right here," he murmurs into her ear. 

Eventually the midwife says it is time to push and that the baby is almost there.

She screams and pushes against him. When she relaxes after a contraction, she feels him trembling slightly.

"You must remember to breathe, Monsieur," she hears one of the young assistants whisper. Is he about to faint? She tries to turn her head to get a look at his face, but he buries his head into her shoulder, taking a deep breath, and pats her hand reassuringly.

“I’m all right,” he murmurs.

"One more should do it," says the midwife, looking at her in the eye. Constance reaches for one of his hands, squeezing it as she finds it. He squeezes her hand and she takes a deep breath. 

She pushes as hard as she can, and finally the pain stops. For a few seconds the only sound in the room is her heavy breathing, but then the air is filled by another sound, the sound of a child crying. _She did it._

Their child is alive and has a strong set of lungs. She's never been so exhausted in her life, but at the same time she can't wait to hold their baby.

"You have a daughter," announces the midwife briskly, going into the corner to wash the baby.

D'Artagnan kisses her temple and chuckles.

"You were right all along," he says. He looks at her and she can't help but grin at his excitement. She is lucky, they are all so lucky. 

"I love you," she replies, resting her head against his chest.

"I love you too. You were amazing," he sighs, hugging her gently.

"Are you really all right?" She asks, remembering the midwife's assistant's words and the way he trembled. 

"I'm better than fine now, I swear."

"It would've been unfortunate if you'd fainted," she teases.

"And miss my little girl's birth? Never. I was a little nervous, that's all."

"I know you were worried," she replies, reaching out to caress his cheek.

"How could I not be? You know how much you mean to me."

"I know, but we're fine."

Their discussion is interrupted by the midwife bringing them their child.

"I think someone would like to say hello to her parents," she says, her voice much less strained now. 

"Thank you," she whispers, as Laure settles the baby in her arms.

**  


It’s only now that the new facts of his life are beginning to sink in. They have a daughter. He is a father now. They are a family.

Constance is sweaty and looks tired and pale, but he has never seen her so happy.

His daughter is an angel. She is absolutely perfect. He reaches down and carefully strokes her head, full of black hair.

"She's so beautiful," says Constance, her voice breaking.

He presses a kiss in her hair.

"She is, just like her mother."

Constance shakes her head.

"She looks like you, silly. I think Hélène is the perfect name for her," she says, confirming the name they had planned on giving a daughter.

"Hélène it is, then," he replies, letting his head rest on his wife's shoulder as they both look upon her. God, how small and fragile she is. He realises he has been wrong yet again, for he thought he already knew what it was like to love a child when he was about to become a father. This new person reminds him of the love of his life and needs him more than anyone else ever has. Perhaps she does look like him, but he knows he will always see his wife when he looks at her.  


For a while neither of them speaks, as they can only marvel at the sight of their first born daughter. The midwife and her assistants leave, Laure emphasizing that she can be called upon at any time and that she will be back in the morning.

“Do you want to hold her?” Constance asks, offering the child to him.

He nods, taking the bundle into his arms slowly and carefully. 

He reaches out to touch her hand and she grabs one of his fingers tightly. His heart swells with pride; she is strong, his little girl.

Later they lie on the bed together with Hélène asleep between them. Constance's finger hooks around his on their daughter's belly.

“When do you have to leave again?” She asks, bringing up the subject he knows they both dread.

He sighs.

“Soon, I guess, but I’ll stay as long as I can. And I’ll come back as soon as I can. I promise,” he says, and he’s never meant it more than now. He will not let anything stop him from coming home to his girls.


End file.
